To Catch Fire
by antychan
Summary: Big romantic weekend in the Poconos could change everything. Slash, HouseWilson.


NOTE: I detest the formatting on this site. If you want the fic looking its best, check it out at my Livejournal. The URL is in my profile.

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Title: To Catch Fire (1/1)  
Author: Antigone a.k.a. Anty

Fandom: House M.D.  
Pairing: House/WilsonRating: R  
Keywords: PWP, Short, Episode Related.Spoilers: The instantly classic "You're a miserable jerk" scene from "Fools for Love" (3x05).

Summary: Big romantic weekend in the Poconos could change everything.

Disclaimer & Notes: Still wish Wilson was non-fictional and mine, so I could fu— anyway. After much angst, I bring something porny with no plot whatsoever. Does that make me lame? Many thanks to my beta brynnamorgan. Oh, and "Princeton rub" is another term for frottage. And to see the awfulness Wilson is pondering, check out www dot caesarspoconoresorts dot com (personally, it kinda makes me horny).

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**To Catch Fire  
© Antigone, October 28th & 29th, 2006**

The suite is ridiculously expensive and can't be called anything other than decadent, though you made sure it didn't contain one of those infamous _7-foot Champagne Glass Whirlpool Baths_, as the idea of mooning about with House in such a monstrosity, while looking down onto a heart-shaped pool, was so fundamentally awful it physically hurt. Not a good idea, considering this is meant to be your "big romantic weekend in the Poconos".

Though right now you really don't know about romance; given there were no candles, no putting on sweet music or toasting with champagne the moment the door closed behind you; House had simply dropped his bag, grabbed your jaw, and kissed you with a lot of tongue. You liked it and figured there was nothing wrong with tearing at each other's clothes and eventually rubbing madly against each other on the bed in broad daylight. You'd done the talking on your way here in the car, pretty much a repetition of the conversation you'd had when you stepped into House's office that day, trying to form a stammer-free sentence around the notion that maybe you should not have said no quite so fast. In the end you'd decided to get away from familiar ground for three days (though you still don't know what House used to convince, make that blackmail, Cuddy to give you the Friday off), agreeing to try to "reenact cheesy porn movies" (without the women) and if that turned out to be totally gross, to watch porn (with women) on hotel pay TV, plunder the mini-bar, and in compensation for the extra cost take "what the hotel naturally owes you" (something House had seen on a _Friends_ episode).

After more (naked) Princeton rubbing, many bites and a couple of hickeys, two handjobs and one blowjob later, it turns out sex with House is anything but gross.

As the two of you lie on your backs next to each other, dusk slowly creeping in through the windows, it strikes you you're still much too horny for a guy going on forty. Your skin is so sensitive even the messy silk sheets feel like too much against it; it's as if your body has awakened to something it had starved for, and now you can't get enough.

"I need more," you say, and you can practically hear House's eyebrow rising upwards. You turn your head to the right sharply and face him. "I really need to have sex again."

He turns onto his left side, propping his chin up in his hand, and smiles at you with an indulging, yet awfully wicked expression.

Your entire body is humming with the need to have him touch you; you're in so much heat you don't even know what it is you specifically want; his hand on your lower belly, his fingers pinching the flesh just above your hip, his thumb firmly stroking the inside of your wrist. As it is, he deeply presses the nail of his middle finger into the areola of your left nipple, then flicks the nipple with his thumb.

You briefly clench your eyes shut and bite your lip, but a loud hiss escapes through your nose. He smirks. Your cheeks flush. You stare at each other.

You grab his shoulders and push him back flat on the bed, straddling his hips while frantically searching the sheets for the tube of that deliciously slippery stuff. "I don't care," you declare and your breathing is heavy. "I don't care that I've never done this before." You cry out in triumph the moment you find the lubricant. "Please fuck me." You look at him, panting, outstretched hand presenting the lube. "Please, please fuck me."

He inquisitively studies your face, then reaches up to slowly stroke his hands down your upper arms. "Give an old man a rest, Jimmy," tiny smile tucking at the corner of his mouth.

Your face falls, but only until he tugs you down and gently pushes you onto your side. He turns away for a moment, reaching for the fruit bowl on his nightstand and picking up a chocolate dipped strawberry. Locking eyes with you, he dangles the fruit in front of your lips. "Open up."

Your mouth does and he reaches in far with his fingers, placing the fruit on the needy patch of your tongue between your molar teeth, the patch that you love to have stroked when you French kiss. Your eyes flutter close. If he presses down now, you think, you'll come without any other part of you being touched.

He does. You moan. He chuckles.

You thank whichever deities are in favor of homosexual activities that it's only late Friday afternoon. You might not have an oversized champagne glass in your suite, but there is still… the pool.

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(Endless End.)


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